


The Games We Play

by PR Zed (przed)



Category: The Professionals
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-05-03
Updated: 2011-05-03
Packaged: 2017-10-18 22:18:12
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 497
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/193907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/przed/pseuds/PR%20Zed
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was a game, wasn't it? Seeing how close I could get to Doyle.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Games We Play

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to Callisto, for giving it a look and making it better.

It was a game, wasn't it? Seeing how close I could get to Doyle.

Going through doors, slinking through alleys, I'd take any excuse to brush past that denim-clad arse. I'd use any pretext to run a hand along a whipcord-thin forearm, or let wind-blown curls tickle past my nose.

And Doyle seemed to enjoy playing as much as I did. He'd stop halfway through doorways until I caught him up, wear ever tighter, ever more enticing jeans, and lean his head into my shoulder at the slightest provocation.

All just good fun.

Until it wasn't. Until the day I had an arm around his shoulders to keep him on his feet, him with a bullet hole in his side. Until the day I could feel his muscles trembling with shock and pain.

I've never been so glad to see the rest of the squad come screaming to the rescue in three Capris. Anson was first out of his car, and he took out the bloke who'd shot Doyle. Murph and the girls followed, putting down a hail of covering fire that let me drag the golly out of harm's way.

Out of range of the gunfire echoing thunderously in that canyon of brick buildings, there was an ambulance waiting. And none too soon. Doyle's face had gone a ghastly grey and his legs finally went right out from under him. I got out of the way as the ambulance attendants got him sorted and into the back of their van. And got right back in their way again to take my place beside Doyle, tightly holding one clammy hand.

"You dumb crud," Doyle said through gritted teeth. "What you looking so worried for?"

"No reason." I tried for nonchalant. After all, there was the game to be played.

"You better believe there's no reason." His voice had dropped so low I had to lean in to hear it over the siren clearing our way through London's crowded streets. "I'm fine."

"I can see that." I gripped his hand even more tightly. "I'll pop off to the pictures after I've dropped you at the hospital then, shall I?"

"Nah," he whispered. "Nothing playing you want to see, is there?"

"Suppose I'll just have to stay with you then."

"Only if it's no trouble."

"No trouble at all, mate."

Then we were at the hospital and bursting through doors and I was displaced from Doyle's side by a stern consultant and a forbidding nursing sister. With Doyle in surgery, there's been nothing for me to do but pace the halls. And think.

I've been thinking that I don't want to play the game any more. Thinking that I need to face some home truths. About how I feel. About what Doyle really means to me.

As long as I don't bottle it, I'm going to do it: tell the dozy bastard everything.

Time to stop playing games. Time to see how close to Doyle I can really get.


End file.
